Revenge is a dish best served......eaten?
Living in Non-UK European country and not having a driving license I get to travel the Pov wagon fairly often. I tend to keep my iPod in and face firmly turned towards the window lest any of my fellow travellers try and engage me in conversationANYWAY my story... Sitting minding my own business near the middle of the busy bendy bus (alliteration ROCKS) I hear shouting towards the front of the bus, a girl around my age (27) was sat next to a young black man shouting typical (for this country at least) fairly racist remarks, enquiring whether he could in fact fornicate with himself, and requesting that he does indeed 'go back to the jungle'. This poor man was sitting there not making a sound, head straight ahead and not reacting. Meanwhile the inspector gets on and is asking for tickets, people are holding them ready to show that all is paid and proper when the young black gentleman takes the shouty ladies ticket out of her hand, eats it and then carries on staring straight ahead. She went mental and of course explaining to the inspector that her ticket had been eaten just got her thrown of the bus for being a nutter without a valid ticket.
(Bababoon, Wed 1 Jul 2009, 19:42,
16 replies)

The Psychedelic Bendy Bus
It had been a shit night. Not least for the fact that it had ended with me stood at a bus stop in the middle of the night, freezing cold. And I'd been waiting for about an hour.

I'd been out, spent a load of money that shouldn't have been spent, felt thoroughly depressed about being newly single for the first time in years, and was just generally in the wrong frame of mind to have been drinking. I'd been to busy bars and it seemed like the world was against me: every fucker in the place was out to spill my drink, get in my way or barge me away from the bar. I was pissed off, and just wanted to get home, The night bus which was supposed to be running every 15 minutes hadn't made an appearance in 60.

It had gotten to the point where it was so late it was now early. Walking home seemed to be the only option, and I had a four-mile stomp to compound my misery.

And just as I turned to trudge away, a bus pulled alongside me. Finally.

It was fairly empty, and I took the unusual decision of sitting near a group at the back of the bus. I normally like to keep myself to myself, but if I fell asleep, I wanted to have half a chance of someone noticing and waking me up before the bus reached the end of the Earth. It was one of Ken Livingstone's mobile traffic jams, a bendy bus, and so the seat I had sat in was a good 15 metres from the attention of the driver.

Watching the cess-pit of Shoreditch slip by, I barely noticed that someone had sat next to me, as I was consumed with bitter thoughts about how much I fucking hated this anonymous city, the girl that had left me and the best friend that had taken her. Until I noticed a burning smell.

And quite a familiar burning smell at that. Turning away from the window, I saw that the guy sat next to me was puffing on a huge joint. He winked at me, and passed it over. The gesture of kindness, combined with absurdness of getting stoned with a stranger on a night bus really struck a chord with me. I instantly felt a little happier.

Not wanting to be too greedy, I took a few tokes and tried to hand it back. He gave me a bemused smile, and nodded backwards. "He said it's got to go that way..." my new friend grinned.

"Who said?" I asked, a bit confused.

"The geezer that handed it to me."

As it turned out, I was sat in the middle of about 10 complete strangers, who had all decided to have a chat and pass spliffs round for their journey home. It was a total mix of ages, ethnicities, and backgrounds, from the Chinese girls that had barely been in the country for 5 minutes to the middle-aged nightworker on his way home from a shift, all smoking weed on the bus like it was the most normal thing in the world to be doing.

We talked and laughed for a good half hour - I still can't work out why the driver either didn't notice or didn't care that the back of his bus resembled a Kate Bush video, as by the end of the journey it was so smokey I could barely find the way to get off.

As the doors opened at my stop with a whoosh, I walked out feeling like a contestant on Stars In Their Eyes, emerging from a green fog with a stupid grin on my face.

The bus disappeared from sight, and I never saw those people again. I sometimes think back about how completely surreal the whole experience was - did I imagine it? Was it some sort of supernatural funk bus, forever cruising the late night streets, on a mission from God to lift the spirits of unfortunate souls in their hour of need?

Probably not. But it was the best bus journey I've ever had, and it came just when I needed it, in more ways than one.

Buses
With festival season getting fully underway this weekend, it's reminded me of an appropriate tale from yesteryear.

~~~~ wavy lines, about 4 years' worth, I reckon ~~~~

I'd got myself tickets to T in The Park, and having paid hideously over the odds through an online tout (scum of the Earth - don't get me started on those wankers), you can imagine my delight when my twunt of a boss told me that - due to "staffing shortages" (one other person with an unrelated job was off) - I wouldn't be able to get the time off.

This bloke was a monumental fuckstick of the highest order, and was basically just doing his usual thing of going out of his way to make other people's life worse, at no gain to himself.

Now, I was never that keen on the job anyway, so I thought to myself "fuck it, even if he knows I'm on a sickie he's not going to fire me just for that", and duly put on my best gravelly throat and called in sick on the Thursday, as we were making our way North of the border.

The weekend came and went in spectacular fashion - if you've never been to T in The Park, you should definitely try, the Scots know how to have a good time. We drove home on the Sunday night/Monday morning, meaning that when my alarm went off at 8, I did what seemed natural... and called in sick again.

Strolling into work on the Tuesday morning - having made the necessary preparations (i.e. cutting off my festival wristband, scrubbing the smell of Scottish field from my bodily crevices), I thought all would be fine - my boss might think that I've thrown a sickie, but he couldn't prove anything.

"TMD? Get your good-for-nothing arse in here!" bellowed the aforementioned fuckstick, the minute I set foot on our floor.

I walked in and fought my corner vigorously, explaining that my phone had been off so that "I could rest properly", and that I didn't have a doctor's note as "I was too ill to go", and "didn't think I needed one for only a few days".

"So, you were really ill, then?"

"Yes, and I resent the accusation that I wasn't"

At which point my boss leaned back, grabbed a remote, and pointed it at the TV in his office...

...revealing a video from the weekend's BBC coverage of the festival, showing me pissed up and lairy, sat astride my friend's shoulders singing along and proudly holding a banner with the words "My boss thinks I'm ill... what a cunt".

"I'll get my coat", quoth I.

~~~~ wavy lines bringing us back to the modern day ~~~~

"That's all well and good, TMD, but what the jiggery fuck has this got to do with buses", I hear you ask?

Well, I waited ages for a relevant QOTW in which to tell this story, then three came along together.

My mate the driver again
He saw some bloke with a crash helmet on at the bus stopand thought, "that's a bit odd" as you would. He picked him up anyway and started to drive away.

The helmet guy then pulls out a pathetic excuse for a knife and says "Give us your money". My mate replied with 'fuck off will yer, I'm trying to drive a bus'

'Give us yer money or I'm gonna stick yer' and brandished the knife some more.

Nothwithstanding the large perspex screen between him and the driver, he still hadn't clocked the fact that (being back in the 90s) your money had to be the correct fare and you dumped it into a chute that went into a steel box. The money in that box wasn't going anyway without the access key and that was in a drawer in the cashier's office back at the depot.

Now my mate was getting a bit pissed off at the runt by now and saw his opportunity to get shut of him.

The route he was driving was across a large open plan housing estate which had a lot of large roundabouts. He put his boot down and started going round the roundabout and opened the doors. You'd be surprised at how fast a 12-litre turbo engine can push 12 tone of bus. and they refuse to fall over having such a low centre of gravity.

He managed almost two full circuits around that roundabout before helmet guy lost his grip and flew out the door. He shut the doors and carried along on his route with a round of applause from the passengers.
(sandettie light vessel automaticNew Twitter - @bollocksreally, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 13:48,
8 replies)

Im afraid this will be the third time I've told this particular tale of child cruelty and vengeance on here, but as its my only bus related story I feel I must

As an experienced traveller of buses, I feel that I have gained an invaluable insight into the problems of public transport. The main problem is that OTHER PEOPLE ARE ANNOYING. This rule applies tenfold in the case of children.

So, one particular day I get on the bus to go into town and take my seat towards the back of the bus. Far back enough to not be sat with the elderly, but not too far back to be stuck with the thugs. All is going as well as a journey in a clapped out stinking bus can possibly go, when the child from hell jumps aboard with his fat arsed chav mother. They sit in the gap thats designed for the elderly and the crippled in the standard display of selfish procrastinating lazyarsed effortless behaviour that you now seem to expect from the tax swallowing handout dependent wasters that are the chav class. The mother opens a family bag of doritos, and proceeds to munch her way to an early grave, while satans fart stands on his seat and starts pressing the bell over and over...and over again.

This went on for about 10 minutes, and I could see everyone on the bus becoming restless as they all got closer and closer to a total nervous breakdown. And then, something incredible happened. Something so extraordinary, noone saw it coming... The mother actually did some parenting.

"IF YOU TOUCH THAT BELL ONE MORE FUCKING TIME WE'RE GOING HOME YOU LITTLE SHIT!" she bellowed menacingly at the perfectly described "little shit". The child immediatly stopped, looking shocked and upset but kept his hand near the button mostly for balance. And so, the perfect opportunity for vengeance had shown itself.

With a quick glance at the mother to make sure she wasn't looking at either me or the demon spawn, I reached up and rang the bell in quick succession. The mother glared at the child, his hand still over his button, and with wails of protest she picked him up, and marched off of the bus screaming at him that he was no longer going to the zoo.
(Furness, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 14:41,
13 replies)

A rare good public transportation experience
I've had most of the usual awful public transportation experiences - vomiting passengers, being felt up, violent crazies - but I'd like to mention my one truly spectacular experience on a city bus.

A weekday in downtown Chicago, a blizzard hits, temperatures keep dropping. Offices let workers out early for safe travel, but too late. I wait in vain for over two hours at the unheated, outdoor elevated train station, truly in fear for my life from hypothermia, then learn trains have stopped running due to the weather. I walk block after block to find someplace to warm up, and all I can find open is a McDonalds, where I fortify myself with several cups of scalding tea before heading back into the storm, desperate to get home. Streets are impassable, littered with stranded vehicles, nothing is moving, so taxis and buses aren't an option. I prepare to turn around and spend the night at McDonalds. Suddenly, to my shocked joy, I spot a lone bus lumbering up the street. It stops in front of me, and the bus driver opens the door, saying, "You'd better get in here." I grab the last seat, next to an elderly woman who keeps farting loudly and falling asleep with her head on my shoulder, but I don't care. I'm out of the blizzard and heading home.

The bus driver is on a mission: To get all of his passengers home safely, which he calmly assures us of throughout the trip. Time and again, streets are completely blocked by stranded vehicles, so the driver takes alternate routes, whether other streets or across the snow covered grass of Lincoln Park (yes, we go off-roading in a bus in 2-3 feet of snow). Each time he gets past an obstacle, the normally jaded, silent, city-dwelling passengers cheer, and pretty soon we start a sing-along. Rather than making passengers get out at bus stops, the driver drops off each passenger as close to his/her front door as possible.

A trip that usually takes 40 minutes took 4+ hours, and what should've been a harrowing experience turned into a party, all thanks to the bus driver who kept our spirits up, assured us of our safety, and was determined to get each and every one of us home. People can complain about the CTA all they want, but we're pretty damned lucky to have people like this working in our city.
(bunnybutt, Fri 26 Jun 2009, 17:57,
9 replies)

Dead passenger...
...I was dispatched (ambulance) to a bus stop near a local shopping centre - a bus driver had radioed his HQ and told them that he had found an elderly lady laying in front of the bus stop and that she probably needed an ambulance. Sure enough, we found the patient lying in front of the bus stop. She was dead and we couldn't revive her as the 'downtime' had been too long. The police arrived at our request and they went through her handbag, found some phone numbers in a diary and contacted a relative.

This is where it got a little strange.

Her daughter told the police that she couldn't figure out why her mum was waiting for a bus at that particular stop - it would have taken her the wrong way and was in fact the stop where she would normally get off after visiting friends in the city. The police noticed a nearby security camera and on looking through the tapes they found footage of the bus driver dragging her off the bus, laying her down in front of the bus stop and he then got back on the bus, which is when he radioed his HQ to tell them of his "finding the patient laying in front of the bus stop."

He got interviewed by the police and told them that he wanted her off the bus as "the bloody paramedics would have tried to revive her on the bus" and so cause him to finish his shift late.

Instead he got sacked and charged by the police. The twat.
(emadexthinks the world will end on, Wed 1 Jul 2009, 16:17,
14 replies)

LIFE ON THE PEASANT WAGON
I suffer from a terrible affliction.

Something so demeaning, so shameful and utterly embarrassing that I sometimes sob myself to sleep at night hoping that its all some terrible nightmare and I'll wake up and it'll all be ok... But that's just never gonna happen. Ever. You see, I can't drive... I mean I REALLY CAN'T drive. Sit me behind a steering wheel of a stationary car with no keys in the ignition and I'd still somehow find a way to barrel roll the fucker, killing and maiming extended families, wiping out entire communities, causing explosions and more death than you'd expect at a bring your own sarin and semtex party.

So, I'm cursed to roam this green and pleasant land as a kind of transport zombie. Riding the peasant wagon for fucking years and years has thrown up some interesting highlights:

Tit CumshotSitting and watching as a mother waps out one of her norks on an almost empty bus from Leeds to Huddersfield and starts breast feeding her eager baby. The little bugger clamped on tight and sucked like a professional porn star attacking a hard on. I didn't know where to look. So, being a gentleman, I just stared at her other partially clothed tit instead. (I was so tempted to ask if I could have a go on the other one; I could almost imagine one getting smaller as it emptied and the other remaining the same size; didn't want this poor mum to be a bit lopsided, did I)? As I was sitting gaping, silently getting a little tighter in the trouser department, the bus went over a speed bump, the baby lost its hold and came away with a resounding POP!!!, and a stream of mammary batter jetted across the aisle and splattered against some gentleman's face, causing him to jerk his head to the side and twat his temple hard against the glass.... (I was wanking over that little display for months... I just love seeing strange men get covered in hot white fluid with a little pain thrown in for good measure, really makes me cum like a broken watermain, that does)...

Child and Animal PornOn a bus somewhere in Manchester I sitting in my customary position at the back, on account of being hard, cool, and urbane. I watched as an annoying little kid who looked like a miniature Peter Andre ran up and down the aisle pretending to be a fucking Jedi Knight (curse George Lucas and his shit new Star Wars remakes; it means now as an adult I have to suffer the sort of shit my parents generation had to put up with when I was a kid). The annoying little shit stopped at a seat occupied by an elderly chap. But he wasn't interested in the old boy, no, he was interested in the Yorkshire terrier sat next to him on the seat, curled up and having a bit of a kip. I watched in silent fascination and horror as the little boy gazed at the terriers chocolate starfish as if it were the most beautiful creation in the history of the world ever. Then, in one sudden motion, the little cuntbag made a noise like a light sabre and jabbed his podgy little finger knuckle deep inside the terriers tiny puckered turd tunnel. The dog yelped, startled to erm... buggery, and proceeded to try and bite the face off its owner sat next to it on the seat. The owner, also duly and reasonably startled, batted the dog tennis-ball style a few rows ahead of him, it soared through the air, little legs paddling, mouth snarling, and landed in another passengers lap where it proceeded to heartily and noisily deficate.

Self lovinOn the top deck of a bus from Rugby to Coventry, I think it was, I was feeling a little amorous. There was no other fucker on board so I slinked off to the back, unzipped and started having a tremendous, high speed wank while looking at the lovely scenery. The bus pulls over the driver appears and says: “Will you fucking stop that! I can see you, you know, in the mirror... Do you want me to fucking crash? Besides, it's putting me right off my dinner...” (I was about twenty-eight at the time).

PhlegmBus from Brixton to Euston. Busy as fuck rush hour Landan twattery. Standing cock to arse crevice with the person in front territory. I see an incredibly well dressed city gent type in a sharp suit let off an almighty sneeze, laying a thick spray of bright green sticky snot into the hairdo of the prim and proper looking woman stood in front of him. The slime remains in place, soaking into her barnet, it looked like a shitload of slugs had held a rave on the back of her head. Did the smartly dressed fella say a word? Did he fuck. He just stood there and looked a little bit embarrassed. Eventually the woman must've felt this goo trickle down her neck, because she raised her hand and stroked at the awesome display of snottage. The strangest thing was that she actually brought her hand to her nose and gave it a little sniff.... That was a bit fucking weird.

GhostbustersFifteen years old, on the way home from school from Northampton town centre to a village on the outskirts. I'd spent a few minutes exploring Samantha Smith's bacon flaps with a probing finger, using all the skill and dexterity you'd associate with a team of raccoons performing brain surgery. After I'd finished roaming about in her innards, spent the next few minutes explaining that I loved her and respected her etc etc, I went back to my mates at the back of the bus and exclaimed just a little too loudly: “Sniff that, you fuckers! My fingers are fucking stuck together! This stuffs like fucking ectoplasm!” (Sam Smith never spoke to me again after that, for some unknown reason...) Though to be honest it wasn't a great loss: Sam Smith's nickname at school was Bruce, as in Bruce Lee, because if anyone ever got to have a crack at her slimey innards they'd be know as someone who'd Entered the Dragon and survived to fuck another day.

MoonAs a student on a bus somewhere near Foggia, Italy, I was dared by a mate to moon the next coach on the motorway that trundled past ours, which would've been going backwards if it was going any slower. As I was loosening my belt ready to get my arse out, my idiot mate even offered to pay me real hard cash if I accepted the dare. So, the next coach comes past, I'm up against the window and presenting my bare hairy arse to those inside, really pushing my arse against the sun warmed glass, holding my cheeks apart to give the passengers on board the other coach a good eyeful of my swaying balls and hairy brown manbox. My mate goes a bit pale. The coach trundles past and I pull up my kegs: “That'll be a gazillion lira please, my good man!” (Which probably worked out at about a fiver in real normal, good old British money. “Errr, what's fucking wrong with you?” My mate just stares: “It was a coachload of nuns...” (Oooooh.... bugger....)

Thinking about it... I really think I might try one last time to pass that fucking driving test...
(SpankyHanky, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 23:46,
20 replies)

Burns night, sorry its a bit long
Have only got one slightly out of the ordinary tale involving a public bus.( a few involving living on a travellers bus doing festivals but thats a different story)This was probably mid 80s.A group of us went to a Burns Night Supper at some gawd forsaken American Werewolf in London style pub in a remote moorland village.I cant remember why or how as none of us were of Scottish descent, but may have been something to do with all the booze you could drink was included in the cover price which back then was probably about £5 tops, and one of the guys was a cousin to the landlords daughters boyfriend or something.So we all piled into a van with a designated driver and drove the 12 miles or so to this odd little pub.I learned 3 things.1/Haggis is vile2/And the lure of free booze is too much of a temptation to resist as our driver got wasted.3/And I'd rather die freezing on the moor than try to sleep in a freezing van with several guys and the after effects of much beer and haggis.And being slightly *cough* drunken myself I opted to walk home.WTF was I thinking?And WTF did no-one try to stop me?In the first hour or so a couple of cars passed me and did stop to offer me a lift but i was so stubborn pissed and angry I declined.By the time I reached the first big road it had started to snow lightly and I was stone cold sober, in the arse end of nowhere and holding back the panic.I stood at the crossroads and stuck my thumb out whenever the rare car passed by but none stopped.Just as I was about to carry on walking i saw headlights approaching and thumbed again when i saw it was a bus with the 'not in service' sign up, so i dropped my thumb, and my head.Then my jaw also dropped as the bus stopped just up ahead and the door opened.I was standing there not sure if it had stopped for me when the driver got out and beckoned.I can still remember his words"Bloody hell lass what are you doing out here on yer own, get on"And so I did and I could have cried or hugged him.I told him what had happened and he turned the air blue, both at me and my pals LOLHe said he could take me to within a couple of miles of where i lived as the depot was in a different direction.Sitting in that warm bus on the front seat while he told me about his family and how proud he was of his daughter who was at university made me feel safe.When we hit the first town he asked if I minded if he ate some chips?Was a bit puzzled as I couldnt smell any, but when i said no, he pulled up and said he would be right back and got off the bus turning everything offSo i'm sitting there on my own on a darkened bus wondering whats going on as he vanished down an alley.Just at the point where I'm thinking maybe i should get off , he comes back and drops a hot paper bag into my hands.Then drives onto the seafront and we sit and eat chips watching the snow falling.As we set off again he tells me he has made a call to the depot , and if I was his daughter he wouldnt leave me miles from home on a night like this.And he drives me right up to the end of my road way out of his way back.

As has been my experience of the kindness of strangers when im lost away from home and have been helped I never think to ask their names when i thank them

i was on the bus.
the high pitched girls at the back were adding new mobile phone tones to the dulcet shrieks that were already causing other passengers to look back up the bus at them and tut. i sat calmly hoping they would notice the air of disapproval and settle down, however the little harridans only got louder.

right i thought. i pulled my mini-loudhailer (£30 from maplin) out of my bag turned round and said in my loudest voice, "we all have new toys we want to play with but have some consideration for the other people on the bus".

it was the first and only time i had seen anything shut up back-of-the-bus-teenage-skank type girls. and even then only for about 5 minutes.

The 192 - Shameless on Wheels
The 192 runs from Manchester Piccadilly to Stockport and is often referred to as the "Danger Bus".

For 6 months this bus made me laugh, wince and also shit myself...

Early hours of Saturday morning, I'm drunk and the bus has managed to get through Longsight without being held up by low life copper chained gangsters. You enter Levenshulme and shit has gone down and the bus needs to take an alternative route, the only problem is the polish driver doesn't have a clue where to go, this route is a straight line from Manc - Stockport...

This was a drunken solo journey and I felt obliged to help the driver,without actually having a clue where to go... 6 cul-de-sacs later and the bus driver lost faith, almost in tears he decides enough is enough! He takes a handful of coins from bus till and does one leaving the engine running...

At this point the whole bus looks at me, they've lost faith in their co-pilot, I'm actually scared by some of the looks I'm getting. As an aside there's also a fat irish woman with her belly and tits hanging all over the place arguing with a tramp, she thinks she's kicking his bag, as it turns out it belongs to a guy who has returned from his travels, he's too scared to even argue with the Irish Tyson!

At this point, I shout out "Is there anybody here that can drive a bus?" In my head I felt like Samuel Jackson in Snakes on a Plane "Lets open some motherfuckin windows"... It felt like I was taking strong decisive action...

No-one volunteers, and infact everybody at this point starts to depart from the bus, news has filtered through to the Blazin Squad on the top of the bus that the driver has fucked off, they take all the fares and run off into the night.

At this point there's a few people lurking about outside, and I'm sat on the entrance step of the bus...feeling more sober by this point, I had a wave of Jack Bauer come over me, and I felt I could do whatever it takes to get me home asap.

I walk back on the bus and the radio are asking for our location, I jump on the radio (as the driver) and report that all passengers have departed due to incident in Levenshulme and that I'm on route back to Manchester. This was of course to throw them of my scent.

The next morning I woke up around 9.30am, I opened the blinds to discover the 192 parked up outside my flat. I absolutely cacked my pants!!! I left the flat immediately and returned to parents house for the rest of the weekend!

Circus of DEATH
"This is a passenger announcement," said the tinny voice on the public address system. "Due to engineering works, train services have been disrupted. A replacement bus service will call at all major stations to Bournemouth leaving from the station concourse."

I take my bag and hump it out of the front of the station where the smart double-decker coach is awaiting us. Immediately I sense there was something wrong. The driver's unfeasibly large sideburns, his bootlace tie and his far too cheerful demeanour. The coach looked like a mid-1970s nightclub. The other passengers look shocked, afraid, trapped, with rictus grins on their faces like they've been drugged.

In a blind moment of panic I realised what was wrong. It was the music. The coach resembled a 70's nightclub, because it was a 70s nightclub, and the driver its oh-so-cheeky compere. He loved his music and he was going to inflict it on all of us. And worst of all, it was the Black Lace Party Album. The doors silently slid shut behind me. Welcome to Royston Vasey.

Agadoo-do-do Push pineapple shake a tree

The driver turned to me and asked where I'm going. I reply Bournemouth, a mere seventy miles and an entire lifetime away. This was the Circus of Death, and he was the clown, the tormentor-in-chief. He were at his mercy

As we pulled from the station forecourt, the Clown turned the volume up even higher so we could be entertained even above the noise of the engine. Already some of my fellow victims looked shellshocked. Several were actually phoning friends, relations, the army, anybody for help. But it was no good. We were trapped.

Hooray, hooray, it's a holi-holiday

By the time we reached Basingstoke, we were already huddled together for our own safety. Some of our number had tried to use their iPods to drown out the music. It was no good. Even with Led Zep IV turned up to ten, Black Lace still won. They were turned up to eleven.

We hit the M3, and the group huddled on the floor at the back of the coach cracked. It was "Oops Upside Your Head". They had assumed the infamous rowing boat formation and were lost to the world. Tragic. We could only pray for their poor, lost souls and the sadness of their families, knowing that they had succumbed.

I am the music man I come from round your way

In Winchester, our frantic attempts to stop more victims joining the Circus of Death were thwarted by a South West Trains official with a clipboard. Forgive the poor, innocent fool, he knew not what he was doing. By then, we had all exchanged addresses and vowed, should we ever get out of this mess alive, to set up a support group.

And so Southampton. As The Birdy Song finally sapped the final vestiges of sanity from our minds, I sprung the emergency door just outside the station and ran for my life, telling myself over and over not to look back lest I be turned to stone like some hero in a Greek myth.

Somewhere in the south of England is a bus. The driver is the evil clown of your nightmares, picking up innocent passengers, reaping their souls, leaving nothing but empty husks chanting his evil mantra "Y - M - C - A".

I saw a bus last week
Not unusual in itself, but for some reason this bus appeared to be changing, growing, in size. Ever the curious chap I stopped to try and work out what was going on... then it hit me.
(lordylordington, Mon 29 Jun 2009, 15:40,
5 replies)

Gas mark 6 for about half an hour, and your pea will be roasted to perfection.
The N29 has always been a nightmare, but a couple of years ago the buses were "upgraded" from capacious double-deckers filled with seats to the new spontaneously combusting bendy buses, with their "increased capacity" consisting of three seats in total and a lot of standing room with not enough things to hang on to. I dislike bendy buses at the best of times, but using them at 4am on one of the nightclub - student ghetto routes just crosses the line. Owing to the impossibility of wedging yourself into a corner seat and minding your own business on a bendy bus, within the first year I'd had my phone stolen twice and my wallet stolen once, I'd been frequently caught in the fallout of uncontrolled vomiting and several people had fallen onto/into/over me, with various results. And it's really hard to read your book.

Despite the above rant, I actually had a seat on the night this story takes place.

It was a Friday, I had staggered out of the Electric Ballroom in Camden at around half past three and, stopping only for water and Tic-Tacs, made my way to the bus stop. The fates were clearly smiling on me and I managed to collapse into a seat and dive into my book in an attempt to block out the horrors around me. All was going well, until the person sat next to me departed and was replaced by someone I could tell was going to be trouble. Clearly chav-curious at the very least, and of the particularly unleasant scrawny, weaselly breed, he entered the bus with two much bigger friends who took up flanking (and CCTV-blocking) positions before sitting down heavily next to me, forcing me up against the window. As he twitched against me like a nutter, I buried my face in my book and desperately hoped I'd be able to avoid a stabbing. Then I felt something... else.

Being a filthy nu-metallist (at least occasionally), I was wearing enormously baggy trousers liberally covered in random zips and buckles. My new neighbour, under cover of his jiggling, had opened a zip at random in hope of interesting things to steal, sneakily reached inside and wound up with a handful of my knee. In full view of his colleagues, both of whom were now failing to conceal smirks of amusement. I looked at him, he looked at me with dawning horror. I grinned and raised one eyebrow, one of his buddies started sniggering and the other cracked up. I looked down, and only then did he remove his hand.

He stormed off the bus at the next stop, his associates following and loudly questioning his sexuality. I had a Tic-Tac, zipped myself back up and went home to bed.
(wellgroomedwookieeis a filthy-minded hobgoblin, Tue 30 Jun 2009, 10:49,
6 replies)

I like sitting in the front seats on the top deck,
holding the rail under the window, and pretending I'm handgliding very slowly around London.
(Pope Shax XIIIuses Visio for picture editing, does it show?, Fri 26 Jun 2009, 14:18,
3 replies)

Euston
Got on a bendy bus once at Euston. A rail replacement thingy to Watford cos it was after 10pm/mildly cold so all the trains were broke. 2 hours later on the outskirts of Watford, me and Dave sat at the back, the only passengers on board, the driver pulls over and walks over to us. "I have no idea where the fuck I am." We had already realised that as he'd gone up the M1 at one point. "Can you tell me where I should be going?".

We directed him to our house, which was on a little street, just off the high st in Watford (smith st if youre interested) and absolutely not the sort of road an 80 foot bendy bus should go down.

Anyway, we got chatting to him, he was a good bloke. Left his bus outside the house and came in for a toke. He left about 10am the next morning after waking in our lounge and suddenly remembered he was a bus driver and that he'd left a fucking massive bus stuck at the bottom of our road, blocking about 40 people in a car park.

A mate and I had been out in Leeds until the small hours and having run out of money we were faced with a walk back to Whitkirk...My mate did not fancy this and came up with the bright idea of breaking into the bus depot in town and 'borrowing' a bus.

I stood outside to act as look out as he went in....after about 20 minutes of the sound of engines starting, reversing, stopping, more starting, reversing and stopping I went in to see what was going on.

"Why all the moving about?" Asks I.

"The number 18 is right at the back." Comes his reply...

"Don't be a tit..." I say. "There's a 57 just here, we can get off at Crossgates and walk."

COCKPRINT
Take your average exitable puppy. Feed it a few wraps of speed washed down with a couple of cans of red bull. And that’s basically what I’m like. All the fucking time. So, put me on a looooonnnnnggggg, dull as fuck journey and I’m bound, no, obliged to do something utterly fucking stupid.

A few years back I used to live up in a little place near Leeds named Heckmondwike. I’d get the bus every morning at god-awful-o’clock to my job in Leeds. One time it’d been snowing pretty damn heavily. Rather than face another day in a house with a woman who I can only discribe as Satan’s evil daughter, I trudged to the bus stop, waited, and eventually got on the Arriva to Leeds. I went up stairs and took up my usual hardman position at the back. And it was only when I sat down and scanned round, in my bleary early morning state, that I realised there was no other fucker on board. Everyone else had probably decided against going into work. The weather was truly fucking awful. But – alas I had my reasons, well, one reason – a short, fat, and fucking ugly reason that would’ve been waiting for me back at my gaff. *Shudders*

So I wrapped my coat round myself and tried to wipe the ice off the windows a bit so I could peer through. It was that fucking cold.

Then I got an idea. A stupid fucking idea. But an idea all the same which for me was something of a revelation...

Very slowly, I touched the tip of my tongue on the freezing cold glass. And I got stuck. I tried to move my head back slowly, but no fucking joy. I’d managed to freeze an essential part of my body to the inside window of the fucking bus. I did a little customary panic. Had a bit of a wimper, and then, bracing both hands on the cold, cold window pane, I wrenched myself free.

And left a little bit of my tongue stuck to the frosty glass. Fuck me. Won’t do that again...

Fastforward a few minutes. The bus is going no-fucking-where. Stuck near Leeds Ikea, crawling along like an oversized rectangular yeti in the driving blizzard. It’d stopped a few times and a few hardy souls boarded, but still no fucker dared to go upstairs and join me. (Possibly because there was no fucking heating on the top deck and it was like sitting in a fucking fridge, my breath billowing out infront of me).

Then I had another idea... A thought entered my head and just wouldn’t go away. I just had to fucking well know... what would happen if...

So, making sure the bus was a long way between the next stop, I stood up loosened the fly on my trousers, grabbed my cold-shrivelled and frightened cock, whapped it out, and slapped my bell end against the cold, cold, glass.

And, I have to say, it felt really fucking good. It stuck in place, my japs eye glued to the glass with the frost. It actually felt quite exhilirating. Pleasure and pain combined. Right, job done, I thought. So I went to move away. Shit! SHIT!!! SHHHIIIITTTT!!! If I’d have had a Hamlet cigar, I would’ve smoked it then in a moment of quiet contemplation. But I didn’t, so I braced my hands against the glass again and pulled back quickly, violently with my hips. And then I cried. I looked down at my poor little cock, saw the blood and passed out.

I came too a little later when a very kindly lady shook my shoulders: “You alright, luv?” she asked. “Bit cold up here, isn’t it?” Thankfully I was scrunched up in such a way that it wasn’t obvious my cock was hanging out, seeping blood from a nasty frost burn. I remained hunched up. I went to speak. The woman said: “Oh, you’re bleeding!” SHIT!!! And then she pointed at my mouth. PHEWW!!! I explained I must’ve hit my face against the glass when I *ahem* fainted...

The woman regarded the window of my seat. “Yes, you can see a bit of skin here,” and she pointed. “And look – there’s more down here too,” and her eyes went a bit blank, she moved away from me a little, as she stared directly at the unblinking, unmistakable cockprint (complete with japs eye) impression I’d managed to leave on the window...
(SpankyHanky, Tue 30 Jun 2009, 12:11,
13 replies)

Sixth formers
I once witnessed a very large, trenchcoat wearing sixth former from another school, whom we shall call G, yank the RnB blasting phone from the hands of a swearing Year 8, whom we shall call D, snap it in half at the hinge, then throw it out the window. Threats of a knifing at the hand of an apocryphal big brother were met with a genuine look of excitement and attempts to organise the thing more officially.

Shaken and now perplexed, D went along with it. They were to meet in a cul de sac in an extremely rough part of town after school.

The next day, D wasn't on the bus. It turned out G had turned up unarmed, except for the 2 police cars filled with serious men in stab vests hidden around the corner. This became 3 cars, then one of those vans you see on a Saturday night, because D had apparently enlisted his entire estate to help him out, and they were all carrying a knife, some drugs, or both.

My mate was a bus driver
and on the last bus of a certain route, he had to pass through the villages of Preston, Hedon and then Paull. Terminate at Paull, turn around and go back to the depot. If there was no one on board after Hedon, he used to just go straight to the depot.

Except on some occasions, there used to be a blind guy who used to get on the last bus at Preston to go to Paull and was often the only person on board by then anyway.

In order to get home a good 30mins early, he had to find a way to avoid picking him up. So he hit upon the idea of switching off the engine and coasting past.

The bloke would be standing at the stop, feel a bit of a draught, and then complain about how late the bus was.
(sandettie light vessel automaticNew Twitter - @bollocksreally, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 13:24,
8 replies)

“No eeeeeet's for everyone!”
'Twas a dark and drizzly night and I was drunkenly chatting with my mate Pete while waiting a seeming eternity for a night bus in a desolate suburb after a gig in Islington. Out of the mist an 'out of service' night bus came along in the other direction and pulled up at the stop opposite.

Much to our bemusement the driver got out, crossed the road past us and started going through the donations outside a Save The Children charity shop and takes a couple of loads back to the bus where he already appears to have a fair collection of would be charity shop fodder.

Pete asks him if he thinks it's ok to steal from a charity. This goes back and forth for a while with the driver getting increasingly irate when Pete in a moment of drunken emotion points out that “It's for the starving children in Africa!” which was enough to set me off giggling. Where upon the (previously very West Indian sounding bus driver) squeaks the immortal reply:

“No eeeeeet's for everyone!” sounding exactly like Manuel from Fawlty Towers finally reaching the end of his tether.

At this point I'm doubled over with laughter and our bus turns up. The driver follows Pete and I on board remonstrating with him at the top of his voice.

The new driver is looking understandably worried at one of his colleagues being in an argument with a burly drunk and asked me what was going on. The expression on his face was when I explained was priceless.

I really wouldn't have like to have been the thieving driver next time he was on a break with his colleagues.

When I complained to the bus company they came out with the normal line about not being able to identify which driver it was. So I emailed them the photos I'd taken of him in the act [stop sniggering at the back] and suggested if they couldn't identify him from those then the local paper might be willing to help. Funnily enough they didn't have any problem working out who it was after that.

I was on teh E3 today from Ealing to Chiswick
And halfway through my journey, I noticed a bunch of deaf girls get on, mainly because they were signing. As they were in my line of sight, I thought I would 'eavesdrop'.

They were taking the piss out of me, I could tell by some of the words, and the fact that they kept turning around to look at me.

So, just before I got off the bus, I walked up to them (all of about 6 feet) and signed to the bigger (well, fatter) one, 'I'm deaf too, you bullhead'.

I didn't need to be threatening, I'm not into that, but I almost pissed myself laughing when I saw the colour drain from her face :)

I'm not sure the other bus patrons even knew what was going on, so there was no rapturous applause or anything like that, just one white girl and their mates looking a bit 'oops'.

Oh - the best bit of it was just before I got up, one giggled 'she doesn't even know what we're saying' or something like that.
(Methylene Blue- electrohead, Fri 26 Jun 2009, 2:14,
7 replies)

Open-Top Bus Idiocy
Hello.

I spent two glorious summer holidays during my university years working as a tour guide in Oxford, conducting tours of the dreaming spires and whatnot on an open-top bus to (more often than not) bemused Taiwanese tourists who had confused it with an actual bus service or Americans who kept asking where the university was. The work was hard on the throat, but the weather was cracking, coffee was free, and opportunities for telling big lies to credulous visitors were many (and fully taken advantage of.)

I have many tales I could tell of my time on the buses. There was our ongoing war with the rival tour company, the ubiquituous and extremely unethical international company City Sightseeing (you'll have seen their buses if you've ever been to a major city, anywhere) who not only were under strict instructions from central management to put us out of business by any means possible, but employed a real, genuine, registered-and-everything paedophile as a driver. They knew it when they employed him but he would work for below minimum wage because, as you can imagine, the job offers weren't exactly pouring in. There was the ongoing contest as to who of us could concoct the best lie and get away with it, as previously mentioned, which I may go into detail on on a later post. And there were the pranks. Oh dear Lord, the pranks.

But for now, I'll just tell you about a stupidly embarassing incident that happened to me one day when there was only one passenger on the bus, a nice middle-aged English lady. It was late afternoon, and as I often did when there were only a handful of folk on, I switched off my mike and went and sat on the seat facing her so I could give her a personal tour and answer any questions as we went along. Open-top buses tend to have metal rails that run just above the seats themselves, and as I talked to her, I swivelled around backwards on my seat and leant my arm and elbow through the gap between the rail and the seat behind, so I could face her properly.

You can probably guess where this is going.

About twenty minutes into the tour, I tried to change position as I was getting uncomfortable, only to find my arm had become stuck in the gap. Never mind. Leave it. Five minutes later, still talking, I try again. Nope, it's still stuck. OK, don't panic. Coming up to a corner where I need to be standing. Give arm sharp tug. Nothing. Still have to pretend everything is fine. Keep talking blithely about Cotswold stone and foundation dates of colleges. When she reaches for her camera, I lean forward as hard as I can and try and yank my arm out of there with my other hand. I am well and truly stuck, and it's starting to hurt. Plus my elbow is going a bit red and I can't feel the skin when I scratch it. Bugger.

Eventually, after about forty-five minutes, it was time to confess. She got involved. Then the driver stopped the bus and got involved. Then the manager of a cafe got involved after both of them had tried - one pulling, one pushing, me whimpering piteously like a dog with the runs - and failed to get me out. A call to the fire brigade is mooted. My boss is informed by telephone and pisses himself laughing (thanks, Paul) - so much so, he drops his phone and breaks it. So we can't call him. Eventually the cafe manager comes back with a big tub of industrial margarine, and my poor elbow is greased up and eventually - oh joy! - slithers free. It hurts for about a week, and I get a massive bruise.

My boss puts signs up on the buses warning of this 'hazard.' I am not allowed to forget the incident for the rest of the summer.

The hideous undead
Last Saturday it was time once again for the annual zombie march. About 50-60 of us gathered in a park, clad in the raiments of the grave and splattered in the finest fake blood we could manufacture (top tip: use cocoa powder, it makes it dry nice and realistically). At the pre-arranged time, we formed up and began our shamble - through the street market, packed with tourists, up into the centre of the city, a quick detour to the blood bank, before finishing at (where else) the pub.

The march was grand fun. We lurched and twitched our way through the city, guttural moans and bone-chilling shrieks emanating from our decaying lips as onlookers stared on, some amused, some bemused, all pulling out phones and cameras to capture pictures of the foul horde. As we neared the end of our journey, all looking forward to a pint of cold beer, a double-decker tour bus came along the street towards us. This was too good an opportunity to pass up. The bus driver must have thought so, too, because he pulled up right next to us.

The vile ranks of the undead spilled onto the road, hands clawing at the windows as we pressed against the bus, our calls for braaaaaiiinnnss filling the air. The driver of the bus was pissing himself laughing, while on the top deck, the Indian tourists aboard jostled for position as they snapped photo after photo of the necromantic swarm. For all I know, they thought this was just another part of the tour.

Our job done, the bus pulled away and we filed into the pub. I sank a few pints, had a game of pool, and peeled the latex off my face. All in all, a great day.

Has anyone heard about the new ultra-fast rocket-assisted service Kellogs have put on between London and Manchester?
Only takes a couple of hours bombing down the motorway. Strap yourself in and feel the gees. And the great thing is its not expensive, its priced so cheaply that its effectively available to all.

Fun, fun, fun...
I knew a bus driver once. Alcoholic cross dressing regular at my old local he was and an entertaining one at that.He had LOADS of stories of deliberate bastardry against passengers like:Deliberately stopping in front of puddles so they'd have to step in water.Angling the bus in sharply at stops when it had rained so the water would sheet off the roof and soak everyone as he braked.Bypassing stops or entire stretches of his route to make up time after stopping for a sandwich or quick beer.Refusing to accept $10 notes all day (or $5s or $20s, whatever he fancied).Refusing to speak English to anyone all day.Accelerating or braking to send people falling all over the place.Best one he told however was when the bus was loaded with people he'd look in the mirror and mutter to himself "You're all worthless cunts aren't you?" then tap the brakes and watch them nod in agreement.
(difficultchild, Sat 27 Jun 2009, 8:17,
5 replies)

Observer of unconsidered trifles...
Since I can't drive, following a driving test/nudity incident that I won't bore you all with, I've had an adventure or two on buses. I offer these for your delectation (Routemasters rock!)...

A smartly dressed gentleman with a huge suitcase asked "'ere, mate is it OK if I bung this in here?" the conductor nodded, and busy with his work he didn't notice the aforementioned gentleman alight from the bus and mount his trusty bicycle in order to follow his luggage on the bus.

I had to laugh as the driver did his level best to speed away from bus stops and traffic lights in a bid to separate the man from his luggage. T'was to no avail though, as the man kept pace without even breaking sweat. Of course the bus crew were powerless to stop the ingenious gent from reclaiming his suitcase at journey's end, he just nipped into the open back, hoicked it out of the rack and went on his way.

On the journey back, I sat upstairs staring idly out of the window when there was a huge commotion on the lower deck. Voices were raised and there was much swearing and a scraping noise. Nosey bint that I am, I ventured down to view the scene.

I had to laugh, there were four men of (I guess) Asian heritage, heaving a huge, flowery sofa onto the bus, to the protests of the conductor, and the driver who had dismounted to join the fray. There was some high quaility arm waving and shouts of "You can't bring that on here!" It was only lack of space that made the amateur movers see sense and remove their furniture. As one of them pointed out "C'mon Dad, where would we put the chairs?"

The 1970's were a much more innocent time..
(Beer ElfThought this was like a campfire, anyhow, on, Fri 26 Jun 2009, 11:29,
5 replies)

The wheels on the bus go round and round
Use to get the bus home from school every day. Journey was normally about 20 minutes but the closer we got to Christmas the longer and fuller the bus got. And the last week of school the bus was standing room only and you couldnt get another single (or married) person onboard

Sat up the back (because I was one of the hard kids) a couple of rows in front was a mum with a young daughter balancing her shopping on her lap. The little kid was standing next to her and was singing loudly. The only song she knew was The wheels on the bus

"The wheels on the bus go round and round.Round and roundround and roundetc

But she only knew once verse. Which she then repeated again and again and again.

And whilst the first time was cute the 23rd time was more than slightly irritating.

So mum turned to her daughter and asked the little darling if she could sing something else.

At which point her daughter stopped and thought for a second before starting up again with

"Bodyform. Bodyform for YOUUUUUUUUU!

The bus laughed and the mum went red in the face.
(lordofallhesurveysHow appropriate you fight like a cow, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 13:24,
4 replies)

Doug
The only bus driver even worth remembering from my youth is Doug. Doug was not a pretty fellow, he had massive coke bottle glasses, a 'bit too neat' side parting and a set of teeth that could, at best be described as 'interesting'. In addition to this, where most drivers would wear a token item of bus company clothing on top of their normal clothes, Doug went the whole hog - bus jumper, jacket, tie, probably underwear if they made any, all topped off with a name badge proudly bearing the legend 'Doug'. This man was commitment to a job personified.

So far he's your standard jobsworth socially challenged irritant, everywhere's got one, it's no big deal. Doug, however, was the cheeriest man on the planet. Every single person who got on the bus was greeted with a hearty, singsong "helloooo, how are you?" "Goooood morning, welcome aboard!" it was impossible not to get swept up in Doug's enthusiasm.

As we were on the college bus, and there were hundreds of us at any one time, we caught onto this pretty quickly, and soon started greeting him in a similar fashion as we boarded. Ev ery morning, the bus to college would be full of happy people all welcoming each other to the bus, chatting, and being generally cheerful for no reason other than Doug.

Doug, wherever you are, you are a true legend of the bus world, and many could benefit from being more like you. I salute you.
(Sonic James Doomforgetting the date since... umm..., Thu 25 Jun 2009, 21:11,
Reply)

Cuntishness made awesome
Londoners will be familiar with our system of paying for buses. Children ride the bus for free. Teenagers may also get on for free, provided they have a special "I'm a teenager" card.

This fact is common knowledge. Despite this, at least once a week, the bus is delayed by a teenager demanding to get on for free without their card.

Sometimes the bus is held up for quite a long time. This is because teenagers are prone to throwing rather loud wobblies at the prospect of having to fork out two pounds.

One day, a moody young chav boarded the bus, without the card. The passengers--including myself (I have lived in South London far too long)--struck up a symphony of tooth-kissing in anticipation of the five-minute delay as bus driver became locked in verbal combat with a youngster with an entitlement complex.